So obviously, it’s been a while since I’ve posted here. I’m in a much better head space now—super skinny girls be damned. Why? Because I decided to focus on just being healthy, instead of getting ever skinnier.

And you know what? The healthier I eat, the less I crave junk! Seriously. At first it was tough—especially since I work in the middle of Snackland—but now that I’m on the wagon, I find myself going to the fridge for applesauce instead of ice cream.

Don’t get me wrong, there is still ice cream in my life. But it’s not the reason for my existence. Because I’m not dieting, nothing’s forbidden. And because I know I can have it if I really really want it, I don’t feel the need to reach for the carton every single night.

However, when Edy’s pumpkin ice cream comes out, all bets are off. I look forward to pumpkin ice cream season all year long. It’s one of the more wonderful parts of fall.

Speaking of which, has anyone else noticed that Christmas is already creeping into the stores? I find that disgusting and wrong. It’s 90 degrees outside! And I mean 90 degrees here in Central Indiana – not Southern California.

Can’t we please go back to the days when Christmas didn’t start until at least Halloween?

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but self confidence is a precious commodity—one that’s not easy to find. You’d think it would come automatically once you’ve found your inner skinny girl (or skinnier girl anyway), but that’s not necessarily true.

Not true at all, actually.

I have a friend who’s lost 40 pounds (no, not me). She’s dropped three sizes and gained a whole lot of healthy habits I can only pretend to emulate. And you know what she said to me? She feels fatter, uglier than ever.

Why? Because while she’s thinner, she’s not nearly as thin as she thinks she could be—as she thinks she wants to be. She’s not shopping in the plus sizes anymore—but she’s not shopping in the itty bitty teeny weeny bikini department either.

And every time she turns around, she sees someone she thinks is thinner. Maybe, just maybe, cuter. And in her mind? Better.

How do I know? Because I think the same way.

See, when I was heavy, I was comfortable with myself. Don’t get me wrong—I hated being fat. Hated looking in the mirror and seeing what I’d become. But I knew where I stood. Those skinny girls? No way I could compete.

Nope, I was fairly invisible. Men’s gazes just kinda skated right on by. Everyone’s did, really. And that was okay by me. There is power in anonymity.

But once the weight came off, so did the invisibility cloak. People looked at me—and when they did, they saw me, including all five bazillion ways I didn’t – don’t – measure up to Miss Teeny Weeny Bikini. And that? Very, very bad for the ego.

In fact, I’ve spent the last month struggling with that very thing. That failure—real or imaginary—to compete with the woman I think I should be. It doesn’t help that I’ve been pulling 70 hour workweeks, neglecting my workouts and my diet. Or that I’m up a pound.

But that’s not the real problem. The real problem is inside my head. And I’m not sure how to fix it. I know I can’t let my inner demons bring me down. But I don’t know how to shut them up, either. Or how to get my Inner Goddess out of the funk she’s currently in.

Until I figure it out, I’m just going to take some advice my grandma once gave me: flash the world your best smile and it’ll be too dazzled to see the quaking mess that’s hiding behind it. So far, it’s working.

Somehow I actually managed to lose a half a pound this week. This is particularly surprising because I had what you might call a Bad Week. It started with drunken karaoke-ing on Friday night. Continued with greasy hangover food on Saturday. Then Monday hit, along with a Mack truck loaded with stress (and brownies).

Like I said, a Bad Week.

Apparently, those five mile runs I forced myself to take as an alternative to drinking an entire bottle of wine each evening paid off.

“McCain posed in size zero jeans for the latest issue of Vogue. Obama, who has also appeared in the fashion magazine, was praised by style writers for the violet sheath dress she wore to her husband’s Democratic nomination victory rally…”

Really?

That’s what we need to know about the next presidential spouse? That she can squeeze into a size zero? And look stylish while holding up the podium?

Really?

I feel like I should have something profound to say here, but I’m too pissed off about the whole thing.

It’s 7:30 a.m. Friday morning. Time to face the music. Or, rather, the numbers. I’m standing in front of my scale, heart beating loudly in my chest, trying to get the nerve to step on board.

“Please, please, please don’t let it be bad news. Please don’t let it be bad news. No bad news, not today,” I chant.

Finally, there’s nothing to do but do it. So I close my eyes, hold my breath and wait for the digital demon to do its thing.

Thankfully, the gods have decided to be merciful. My weight’s exactly the same. In fact, it’s stayed steady for a whole month now—I seem to be actually getting this maintaining thing down.

Now, in a perfect world, I’d still be losing. I still have ten more to go. But given everything else I’ve got going on right now, I decided to take a little break from the whole diet business.

Instead, I’m trying to just live. And good lord is that scary.

There’s something very comforting about being on a diet. When I’m working toward a goal, it’s easier to make myself do stuff I have no desire to do. Like ignore cravings for cake and eat carrots instead. Or go sweat at the gym after a 12-hour work day when I really want to go home and watch reruns of Scrubs.

But now that I’ve hit it? Well, for a while, it was great. People noticed. My clothes fit better. I felt better. But eventually, the novelty wore off. And now I’ve just got to keep on keeping on. With no real reward in sight.

Well, except for stress-free encounters with the scale. Clothes that continue to fit. And a self-confidence level that remains somewhat healthy.

All good things. But when I’m faced with a plate of brownies, or a grease-laden pizza, or am weighing the pros and cons of that second pint of beer, they’re hard to remember.

And the easy excuse, “I can’t because I’m on a diet,” is gone. Instead, I have to rely on the self-discipline that I’ve supposedly learned over the last year or so. And the healthy habits that are supposed to have burned themselves into my consciousness.

It doesn’t always work. I’ve eaten a few too many brownies lately. Blown off a few too many gym dates. Indulged in a pint or three. But I’m getting better about it. And I think I’m finding some balance.

But I still feel like I’m blundering about in the dark. And I remain just a little bit terrified.

In fact, over the past month and a half I’ve averaged oh, maybe two workouts a week. Max. Which ain’t nearly enough. But when burnout strikes…it hits hard. And I was fried.

Then, five yards of prime topsoil (and a bit of cow poo) landed on my driveway. Why? Because my blood runs a bit green. See, my mom is a Gardener. With a yard worthy of a magazine spread. And she taught me a house isn’t really a home until it’s surrounded by flowers o’ plenty.

Unfortunately, my house sits on top of a quarry. You can’t dig into rock. Or grow anything in it. Trust me. I tried. Thus, the giant dirt pile.

So what does that have to do with exercise, you ask?

Well, let me tell you, after 72 hours of shoveling, hauling, digging and planting, every muscle in my body hurts. And since gardening burns approximately 383 calories an hour, I killed something like seven bazillion calories.

If that’s not a workout, I don’t know what is.

And I feel good. Sore, sure. But I accomplished something—something Big. Something that I couldn’t have done if it weren’t for those muscles I spent so many hours building in the gym.

In fact, if I had gotten that same pile of dirt delivered this time last year, I would have had a heart attack—or at the very least, a pain-fueled temper tantrum—before the first wheelbarrow load got moved. And the results wouldn’t have been nearly so satisfying.

So what did I learn today?

First, you don’t have to go to the gym to get a workout. But all those exercise sessions I do put myself through inside that hall of torture? They’re way worth it.

So, when I decided to go in search of my inner skinny girl, doing without cake was not an option. Instead, I went in search of new ways to get my bake on.

Here are three of the easiest, tastiest recipes I’ve found.

Carrot Cake

1 box of any commercially prepared carrot cake mix
1 14.5-ounce can of pumpkin
¼ cup of water

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. Combine all ingredients and mix with electric beater for two minutes. Then spread in a 9 X 13 pan (hit with non-stick cooking spray first) and bake for 25-27 minutes. After the cake has cooled, top with fat-free whipped topping.

The cake will be very moist. For an extra dose of deliciousness, add a cup of canned pineapple tidbits to the batter.

Combine ingredients and mix until all lumps are gone. Then spread in a 9 X 13 pan (greased with non-stick cooking spray) and bake at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes (or according to package directions).

You can experiment with different cake mixes and flavors of soda. Lemon cake mix + diet 7up = yum.